


may the winds blow till they have wakened death

by hoisinn, katdamn



Category: Othello - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Foreshadowing, It just keeps going, Missing Scene, Valentine's Day, conversation between two women, liberal description of the sea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-28 23:51:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17797151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoisinn/pseuds/hoisinn, https://archiveofourown.org/users/katdamn/pseuds/katdamn
Summary: “We are so far away from Venice,” Desdemona remarks. Her voice is soft and unsure. “Away from everything we know. Have you ever travelled this far, Emilia?”---A missing scene between Acts 1 and 2, composed entirely of Desdemona's anxiety about love and marriage, and Emilia's concern.





	may the winds blow till they have wakened death

**Author's Note:**

  * For [katdamn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katdamn/gifts), [CloudedStripes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudedStripes/gifts).



The lion of Cyprus stands bright against the sky, sunlight reflecting the colours onto Desdemona, dappling her skin with gold and fiery red. Up here, the wind blows frenzied and viciously, the ropes holding the Cypriot flag straining to keep it from blowing out to sea, never to be retrieved again. The vastness of the ocean awes her, deep blues and ceruleans extending further than the horizon, disturbed only by cuts of foamy white waves, crashing, fading, rising again.

She sighs, and the sound is lost in the gale.

“I seem to be finding you up here more often than not, Desdemona.”

Emilia’s voice comes as a surprise - though not one unwelcomed. She turns to look at the woman below, smile met with the other’s own, as different in miens as they are. Desdemona steps back from her position on the crows nest, gripping the barrier behind her with white knuckles. Part of her wishes she had not ventured quite as high as this, for the drop to the deck seemed tenfold taller when at the edge of the nest, but the other parts remain uncowed. Emilia is resolute for all Desdemona can see.

She completes the climb with very little grace but a great deal of dignity, stepping onto the platform beside her and gazing down to the deck from where she departed. “As many times as I ascend to these heights, I will never get used to seeing the world from this position. Remind me never to look down again!”

“The only reason we come up here is to enjoy the view, Emilia, and I have found it a common agreeance that the sky and the sea are much more impressive than the soldiers below, no?” Desdemona’s grip relaxes marginally. “Therefore, there is no need to look down.”

The flag billows above the pair, and the colours shift again.

“On my part, I find it quite enjoyable to watch people go about their duties…though it’s rather repetitive when there’s nothing new for them to do. I daresay many of their uniforms are in need of reworking, and even more so after the battle has been won.”

Emilia’s dark hair is now tinted red. It reminds Desdemona of sparks and burning coals.

“Oh, do not speak of battles!” She glances past Emilia with agitation.

Blue and cloudless, as far as she can see. The roar of the wind makes it hard to think. “What I would give to be with Othello in these troubled times. I worry for him, Emilia - but parallel to that is my worry for myself! I…”

She trails off, words caught in her throat. Emilia raises a brow.

“You worry for yourself? Why’s that?”

“I - I know not.” Her brows are creased, possibly in thought, possibly from stress. Golden hair swirls, tangles, casts harsh shadows on her face, and she bites her lip.

“...I told you of Othello’s tales almost immediately after I first heard them. That you remember.”

Yes, Emilia remembers - not the details of each story (for they struck her as rather outlandish), but how Desdemona spoke them, with animated eyes of fire and vitality, and an accent as far from Othello’s as possible, but always naming the unknown lands and creatures the way he apparently would.

“He would show me trinkets from each of his voyages, some rare and more delicate than others. I have one on my person now.”

“The handkerchief?” 

Ebony-black cloth is retrieved from inside Desdemona’s dress sleeve. Sheens of indigo and gold form waves, folding between each tiny embroidered strawberry, stitched with a red far more vivid than any European dyes Emilia had seen. She holds it so gently, cradling with such care as if it could tear into a hundred slivers to be scattered out into the sea.

“It was the first of his gifts when we began to see each other in private… behind my father’s back.”

“Are you afraid of the signior?”

The thought of Desdemona being afraid of Brabantio occurs as rather uncharacteristic on two parts - her mistress had never expressed any familial fear, and her father gave her no reason to. He said many things, often aggressive in nature (none were directed at Desdemona, thank the heavens), but hardly any of them translated into any semblance of action. Emilia’s hypothesis is proven when Desdemona shakes her head, lightly crossing her arms.

“I know I do not worry about his _opinion_ any longer, for he has made it… quite clear that he shall have nothing to do with me now. It is simply that I worry that I have _wronged_ him. By rebelling against the rules of our house, running away and - even for loving Othello. Was he right in opposing our marriage?”

Emilia moves to grasp Desdemona’s hand, giving it a squeeze. It was swiftly reciprocated.

“Of course not. As you said in the court-”

“- He is my lord of duty, but as my mother preferred him before her own father, I am too. I did truly believe what I said- and still do! I am justified, but even logic does not seem enough to free me from my anxieties. Alas, I cannot explain it very well.” 

Desdemona removes her hand from Emilia’s, easing the handkerchief back into her sleeve. She remains in that position, nervous fingers fiddling with the lace trim of her cuffs.

“I understand.”

 Emilia tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, as Desdemona turns toward her, incredulous though she says nothing.

“Soldiers are trained to assess wounds and risks. They can estimate when one will die, or if it’s possible to get care before they bleed out.”

“Emilia-”

A raised hand silences her. 

“When a soldier senses their friend is dying, they know he cannot survive without a miracle, and yet they’ll remain by their side, praying that they'll live, hoping against all sense of reason for God’s intervention. Rationally, they know it cannot be, but this does not release them from their optimism.”

“A soldier in battle is very much like a woman in love, then,” Desdemona muses. She gives Emilia a thin smile, resting her arms on the ledge of the nest. “You are implying that I logically know my father is in the wrong, but my love for him prevents me from accepting it?”

Emilia nods, grateful that she has gotten her point across. The other pauses.

“I see. Thank you for understanding.” 

They are silent for a while longer.

Behind them, the ship cuts through the ocean, leaving behind foam and waves in its wake, a bright white brushstroke lashed on an infinitely fathomless canvas of azure. But there is nothing but their ship against the sea - no boats, no land, nothing.

 

“We are so far away from Venice,” Desdemona remarks. Her voice is soft and unsure. “Away from everything we know. Have you ever travelled this far?”

“I cannot say I have. Your father would assert that I stay with you during times of conflict. Even if I refused, my husband would have likely forbade me from travelling with him.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

It’s obvious from her distracted tone that Desdemona is still caught up in her own little grievances to truly sympathise, staring absently into the distance. “I’m sure he has his reasons.” 

“Yes, yes, of course. His reasons I know not, however I have little desire to find out.”

When Desdemona does not reply, Emilia looks upon her with a growing sense of perturbation.

“I brought up Othello’s tales for I am worried about him. Which I should not be - he has convinced the state and I his military worth by not only his tales, but his accomplishments - he’s a general! A general of _Venice_ no less, and to have liberated himself from the tragedies he was born into, is more than enough qualification to lead an army against the Turks. I detest my refusal to listen to my own logic and reason! I very much want to learn how to stop myself from fretting and lingering on my past actions.”

Her voice is even and strong with a sense of resolve and finality, but it tremors on the last few words - reminding Emilia of just how young, how sheltered from the world she is.

“I believe there's very little you can learn in regards to your emotions. Perhaps it's human nature to be irrational at times, so you're not alone in this.”

“Everything I do - It feels wrong!” Heedless, Desdemona appears to be glaring - yet almost pleading - at no-one in particular. Her eyes are fixed on a point only she can see, and it pains Emilia’s to see Desdemona so desperately frustrated, wallowing in her insecurities. She opens her mouth to speak, but the other continues before words form.

“Everything I do, everything I say feels like I’ve made a mistake. One that is irreversible, al-almost unforgivable.”

She whips around, suddenly with little sense of self-preservation at these heights, and clasps Emilia’s hands. Their eyes searing, one with concern, the other with distress.

“I don’t like it, Emilia. I do love him, I do! I shouldn’t be feeling like this, right? I should have faith in him-”

“ - Desdemona! Listen!”

Exasperation strains her voice, slightly too harsh, and Emilia inwardly recoils from herself. The other is young. She is inexperienced in love. And her love is altogether a different kind than the type Emilia knows.

“Listen.”, she repeats, sighing. “Othello is the first man you have fallen in love with, and it is… a woeful coincidence that Brabantio disapproves of him. I know you've said you care not for his opinion, but you must recognise that what you say does not always reflect the truth on the inside. You do not like this. I never did expect you to. But take it from someone who has loved before - you cannot predict anyone’s feelings in a new relationship. It will be precarious and unsettling, yet also spontaneous. Every day will give you something new. Whether you should or should not be feeling whatever you are is not in your hands, at least for now. And to stay with Othello, to follow him to Cyprus despite it all… that is faith enough.”

 

Emilia thinks she has done a decent job at imparting some sense of comfort, but apparently not. She does not know whether to be disheartened at her failure, or to try and try again. Taking a deep breath in, she vouches for the second option, but Desdemona looks away at the sound - a miniscule fraction of a movement, but it is enough to stop the other in her tracks.

They lapse into a tense quiet, the whistling of the now calm wind providing ambience amongst the idle chatter of soldiers and crew, and the continuous rise and fall of waves beating against the side of the ship. The Cypriot flag hangs almost limp against the flagpole, and Desdemona’s face takes on a rather sullen expression in the lack of warm, reflected light.

To say the least, it is discomforting to Emilia, and she cannot imagine what the other might be feeling at the moment.

 

Another while passes, until ithe silence becomes intolerable.

“I have heard the soldiers talk of Valentine’s day very recently,” Emilia starts, watching out the corner of her eye for any reaction from Desdemona. “I do believe that is tomorrow.”

“Y-yes,” Desdemona answers. Emilia waits, expectant for a reply. “I heard Othello mention it on the afternoon of our wedding, though it was not to me - some soldier, I expect, to be involved in a grand spectacle of love.” 

She smiles despite herself, and her cheeks tinge the lightest shade of red when she next speaks. “It was meant to be a secret, so I have never mentioned the subject to him lest he becomes suspicious - ah. I just realised… He was not expecting our departure for Cyprus, was he?”

Emilia shakes her head. Desdemona bites her lip again, hands subconsciously rising to smooth out the tangles in her curls. “That is quite… disappointing. I had dearly hoped we could have done something to celebrate the occasion.”

Her eyes flicker down. “Many of them probably feel the same way.”

'Them' refers to the other residents on the ship- soldiers, crew, attendants, and pageboys, most of which were similarly wrenched from the security of Venice and the shelter of their loved ones, to this battle against the Turks. Emilia follows Desdemona’s gaze and hums in agreement.

"Coincidentally enough, all this brings to mind the origins of Valentine’s Day. Have you learned of it?”

Desdemona did not.

“I suppose I will tell you now, then.

 “The story recounts the events of one particular Saint Valentine’s life. He lived in Rome, under the reign of an emperor named Claudius. Though Claudius was not opposed to all forms of marriage, he outlawed the elopement of young men and their wives-”

“No!” Desdemona exclaims, hand moving to cover her mouth.

 “For unmarried men would make better soldiers. According to Claudius, they would focus more on battles and military exploits, and less on family issues, without have a family to care for.

“Saint Valentine, upon hearing of the news, was outraged at the decree, and consequently went on to perform marriages behind the watch of the law. He was, of course, found and arrested, and eventually sentenced to die. Wh-”

“How _could_ they! Unbelievable-”

“Desdemona, let me finish. When they confined him to a prison until his execution date, the jailer’s daughter would visit, initially to meet the man who married off a few of her friends, but then they grew closer and closer, and the daughter would stay next to Valentine’s cell for hours on end, exchanging stories and sweet nothings. However, Claudius’s mind could not be swayed, and Valentine was killed. Killed for love - wait - and we remember his name through a letter he sent to the daughter, signed ‘from your Valentine.’”

Desdemona’s eyes are wide, whether in awareness of the story's message, in pity for the saint, she cannot tell.

“Killed for love…” She sniffs, frowning.

“Tell me, Desdemona.” Emilia decides to regard the soldiers below in their slightly garish uniforms, appearing in the gaps between criss-crossing rope and salt-soaked sails, as she braces herself.

“Do you think Valentine was a fool to die for love?”

 

The question strikes her as so ridiculous, she sharply exhales, almost bordering on a laugh.

“Of course not! He - he loved love, and it was incredibly heroic of him to right something horribly injust! To have faith in a cause and to go so far as to risk his life and freedom for it is the farthest thing from being a _fool_! His passion for others is something I aspire to have, or otherwise be the woman such a man rested his eyes on.”

Whatever Emilia’s sentiment is, it seems to be almost the complete opposite of Desdemona’s words, judging by the lowering of her eyebrows into an look of near perplexity.

“You… you would die for love? It could be possible that you’ll be filled with such passion as you described, and sacrifice your own _life_ for the sake of others happiness and content?”

There is no disbelief evident in her voice, a stark contrast to her outward expression, and no shock toward Desdemona’s audacity. Their eyes don’t meet, and when the other speaks, her voice is unfaltering.

“Yes. I would die for love.”

Though an expected answer, it fills Emilia with a sick sort of disappointment. She drops her shoulders - when did they tense? She can’t remember.

“And it makes no difference whether it is my own love or another’s! I know you are talking about Othello, and I will tell you now that I can and will do anything in my power to make him happy. He is my husband and my lord, and I trust him with my life.”

 

Emilia does not respond. Slowly, she looks away from Desdemona. For a long time, neither speak, the wind billowing around them.

“Emilia?”

“I'm alright. Merely thinking, that's all.” It is not a lie, but about what, even she doesn’t know. Perhaps nothing.

“Desdemona, you are one of the most lovely, sweetest people I have ever met.” A small, tired smile spreads across her face, as she reaches to hold one of Desdemona’s hands with both her own.

“Othello is a very fortunate man to have a Valentine such as you.” 

“O-oh.” Her blush deepens, as her bashful grin widens. “Emilia, you flatter me!”

“How could I flatter you with the truth?”

“You deceive yourself, then! No wonder my lord calls your husband Honest Iago, any man would have such virtue compared to a woman like you!”

She laughs, suddenly without a care in the world, and Emilia wishes they could stay like this forever.

“Don't worry, I’m simply jesting. I'm glad to be acquainted with you.”

 Red and gold filters through her hair again, an angel of Venice resting in a nest above the sea. She tilts her head, looking out toward the horizon and the light of the newly setting sun.

“We should-”

“Desdemona! Emilia!”

A deeper voice calls from beneath the two, gruff and slightly accented. Desdemona frees herself from Emilia’s grasp, turning and leaning over the nest to look down at Othello's ensign, who’s waving up to them from the deck.

“Hello, Iago! Is it time for dinner?”

“Yes, on the berth deck! We're expecting you in a few minutes!”

“And you shall see us there!”

They exchange a wave goodbye, Desdemona already clambering out from the nest (with equal lack of grace, but probably less dignity). Emilia can see her visibly relax when she touches the thick rope of the rigging, and her hands trembling only a little when she descends.

 

“...That was a nice talk we had, Emilia,” Desdemona says when the other sets foot on the main deck. “Thank you very much.”

 

* * *

 

It is not long into the next morning when the sighting of land is announced, and when the growl of thunder rolls from behind the ship toward Cyprus. Emilia hopes Desdemona’s anxiety isn’t rekindled at the absence of Othello’s warship in the harbour, or by the masses of strangers on the looming fortresses. She does not seem happy, but she smiles through her distress, forces a laugh at Iago’s pointed jokes, and peeks too many times toward the ocean.

Speaking nothing but defence, and praying that everything will be alright, Emilia stands by her side.

 

A trumpet blares from within the fortresss. 

Othello has arrived.

**Author's Note:**

> happy valentines day :))


End file.
